


Soft Boot (Part 4)

by mother_finch



Series: Soft Boot [4]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 02:10:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17458607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: After six months of extensive preparation in Syracuse, Harold Finch and Sameen Shaw have compiled their team and are ready to strike back against Samaritan; however, with all the time that's passed, Root is coming to find the line between reality and simulation far too blurred.





	Soft Boot (Part 4)

**[Searching for malware...**

**> Keyword Search: Samaritan...**

**> > Populating results...**

**...Monitoring Assets...**

**> Greenway Veteran's Memorial Park**

**> > James St. Walgreens Security Cameras**

**> >> 11:51, 10/13/2018**

**... Asset Identities: -REDACTED-]**

Sameen Shaw sits on a park bench, a copy of  _Flowers for Algernon_  in hand. She flips the page, though her eyes skim just above the words, watching the network of high rise buildings surge with life.

A small intersection separates the park from the industrial complex, making the perfect place for a breath of fresh air during lunch hour. She checks her watch.

_11:51am_

Bear shifts at Shaw's heels, ears pricking as a bird rustles the yellow and red leaves above. A few flitter to the ground, unable to hold to their branches any longer.

Shaw had been sitting on this bench during the lunch rush for nearly three months. Building up a reputation-- a pattern and an identity to keep Samaritan's prying eyes from locking on her. The cover itself was six months in the making. With Harold's handy-work and whatever tidbits the Machine could sneak under the radar, the two managed to create new lives, hiding in plain sight.

Shaw is tired of hiding. She's been tired of hiding since the day they arrived, but she knows that without gathering enough intel, they'll never find Root and John.  _Not alive, at least._

She hadn't heard so much as a peep from Root since the phone call. That was just over six months ago. The lack of contact could mean only two things: they didn't make it out, or they didn't make it at all. Shaw closes her eyes. _I have to know. Even if it's too late, I need to see for myself._  She hates the thought of it being too late. She doesn't even want to admit it as an option. But with all the time that's elapsed, and with all the radio silence that has followed, it's becoming more than just a growing possibility. It's becoming an inevitability.

Regardless of the endless months lying in wait, today is a special day. Today is the first domino to topple in the set.  _It won't be long now, before the rest follow._

"Do you have eyes on her?" Harold asks through Shaw's ear wig. Her eyes flicker from left to right, making sure no one's in ear shot. She lifts the book a bit higher to hide her lips.

"Not yet, but she'll be here."

"And what if she isn't?"

Shaw doesn't even want to humor the idea. She purses her lips.

"She's always here. That's not going to change."

And sure enough, from around the corner, Claire Mahoney walks purposefully toward the Walgreens on the corner. She disappears behind the automatic doors.

"She's in your territory."

Harold's identity, a divorcé that moved back to Syracuse to take care of his ailing mother, is also Walgreen's employee of the month.  _'It's a good thing they keep the plaques in the back of the store,'_ he'd told her, coming back to their shared hideout with a flimsy certificate for a job well done.

"I'm gonna take five," she hears Harold tell another worker, conveniently slipping out of eyesight.

"You don't want to say hi to the girl who almost got you killed?" Shaw asks with a smirk. "Maybe return the favor?"

"Not funny, Ms. Shaw."

Claire's voice is muddied in the background as she pays for something. A few seconds later, she's back outside, crossing the street to the park.

"You can cease hiding from a child now," Shaw cracks, and she can see Harold's lip twitch in her mind's eye.

"Unlike you, she  _knows_  what I look like," he huffs indignantly. She lowers her eyes to her book, flipping the page once more and tracing her thumb across the dog-eared corners. This, along with a few other oddities, was amongst Root's things. They needed to be cleaned out at some point-- otherwise thrown away by whoever moved in next-- and Shaw was in need of a new hobby anyway. Reading seemed like a good way to take her mind off things.

Bear stands, seeing Claire approach, and he presses himself against Shaw's leg as he tries to get a better look at her. Eyes flittering up, Shaw sees Bear has caught her attention.

"Hi, boy," Claire coos, approaching Shaw. Shaw's eyes flicker up to her, and Claire stops. "Or... girl?"

"Boy," Shaw responds with a smile. Claire relaxes, starting forward once more. She rubs behind Bear's ears and scratches his chin.

"That book any good?" Claire asks, nodding her head to Shaw's hands. She raises a brow in response. "I've seeing you around the last few months, and you've always got the same one."

"I'm a slow reader," Shaw replies, setting the book on her lap. "It also doesn't help that the only spare time I have to read is my lunch break."

"Some time is better than no time," Claire responds, hands making their way to Bear's back. Shaw watches her carefully, but keeps the prying of her eyes contained. As Claire leans into Bear, letting him lick her face, Shaw sees her security badge swing past her jacket.

"It's a good book. So far, I'd recommend it."

"I'll keep that in mind," she says, giving Bear one last pat before standing back up. Giving Shaw a quick wave, she starts down a small trail, Walgreens bag in hand. Shaw picks the book back up. Waits.

_Three Mississippi, Four Mississippi, Five..._

Leaning forward, she tussles Bear's hair, and he tilts his head back to look at her.

"It's your time to shine, handsome," she says close to his ear. "You do good on this, and there's an eight ounce steak in your future."

She unclips his leash.

He's on his feet and booking down the trail within the instant, gravel flying up behind him as he makes a direct line for the lunch in Claire's bag. Shaw pulls the card reader out of her jacket pocket, placing it in the book and keeping the sensor pointing outward. She jumps from the bench, running after Bear.

"Buster!" Shaw calls out, angling herself toward Claire. "Buster, come back!"

Bear latches onto Claire's bag, tearing at it and yanking Clair with him. She's taken off guard, balance faltering, just as Shaw barrels into her.

"I'm so sorry," Shaw mutters, hand on Claire's shoulder. She presses the button on the reader, aiming it at the exposed security badge. In one fluid movement, she pushes away from Claire and grabs Bear by the collar with her free hand, making sure to hold the book spine-forward.

"Buster," Shaw scolds, pulling the mangled bag from out of his mouth. Soup leaks through the holes. She looks up to Claire with wide eyes. "I'm so sorry, he's never usually like this."

"Oh, no don't worry, it's okay," Claire assures her, holding the bag at arm's length.

"Here," Shaw says, reaching for her pocket. She slips the reader back in seamlessly. "Let me give you some money for that."

"You don't have to, I'll just go back and get another. It's really no big deal."

Shaw re-leashes Bear as Claire walks past, tossing the bag in the trash and heading back across the street. Shaw waits for her to be out of earshot, then gives Bear a good pet.

"Good boy," she tells him, rubbing his ears.

"Did you get it?" Harold asks, and Shaw grabs the reader back out of her pocket. The sensor light is green.

"I got it."

## ___\ Soft Boot /___

 **[Track in Progress..**.

**> 298 George St. Syracuse NY**

**> > George St. street cameras**

**> >> 21:34, 10/14/18**

**... Securing Drop Location for Asset: Harper Rose]**

Walking up the darkened sidewalk, not bothering to scan her surroundings like Joey and Logan, Harper keeps her eyes locked on the peeling white door with the number 298 in black. As confident as she can appear to those around her, an apprehensive chill slithers down her spine.  _Was it really safe to come here?_

She'd received a message from Shaw the day before:  **it's time. 298 George St., Syracuse**

No explanation. No checklist of things to pack. Just a confirmation and an address. And yet, here she is, with a car so packed with illegal weapons that any parking cop in a three hundred mile radius would have a heart attack if he pulled them over. Their trip up from Maryland went without hitch.  _No heart attacks needed._

She raises a hand to the door, balling it into a fist to knock.

"You're not even gonna get your weapon ready?" Joey hisses from behind her, fingers brushing along the handgun in his waistband. Even Logan's trigger finger is twitching. He shifts from one foot to the other, eyes never staying in one place for more than a second.  _Must be hard_ , she thinks humorously,  _to be such a famous face and still manage to be a vigilante without a mask._

"What do you think I brought  _you boys_  for?" she answers with a wink, knocking on the door. After a minute, a latch slides, lock turning, and it's yanked open a crack. The first thing Harper's faced with is the barrel of a gun, Shaw's eyes barely visible in the shadows. She looks Harper over, then opens the door the rest of the way.

"Don't look so down," Harper tells her, brushing past and stepping into the room. She does a quick scan, eyes barely seeming to move. The boys will take their time, canvassing every nook and cranny, but she has what she needs from a glance. "Last time I checked, you  _wanted_  the house guests."

"If I didn't want you here, I wouldn't have opened the door," Shaw responds. Harper can't help but look back to her, eyeing her curiously.  _How do John and Fusco manage working with her?_ she can't help but wonder. Shaw stares back, face nothing more than a mask guarding anything that might give a clue as to what's on her mind.  _She's too serious._

Footsteps start from the kitchen, and Harper is surprised by a familiar face.

"Didn't expect to see you here," she says with a smile. "Your ass on the line again?"

"Very funny," Fusco retorts, but there's a smile on his lips. "When Shaw told me she was calling in some backup, I wasn't expecting you."

"Backup?" she echoes. "We're not  _backup_."

"They were plan A," Shaw chimes in, closing the door behind Joey and Logan. A sinister glint lights in her eye as she sets her gaze on Fusco. " _You_  were plan B."

"What is this?" he demands, cheeks reddening. "Some sort of party to bash me?"

"It's just too easy not to," she throws back, returning her firearm to her waist and leading Harper's group into the living room.  _Maybe I spoke too soon,_  Harper thinks to herself with a hint of a smile.  _She's starting to grow on me._

"So, what's the job?" Harper asks, flopping down on the couch and perching her feet on the coffee table. Grabbing a picture frame from the side table, she sees a family of four smiling back. She doesn't bother wondering where they are. She puts it down. "You've been sitting on this number quite a while."

"It's not a number."

Harper raises a brow, and Joey turns to her. They have a conversation in a series of looks, and Logan looses patience. He clears his throat, and Shaw's eyes flicker from Harper to him.

"If it's not a number, then why are we here?"

"It's more of a rescue mission. You remember John?"

Harper bites her bottom lip. She sits forward in her seat, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Someone take him?"

"Almost two and a half years ago."

"And you didn't tell us?" Joey bursts, taking a step toward her. He has a way of looking intimidating from his time in the service, but Shaw doesn't flinch. "I owe that man everything I have. My life, my girl-- why have you let this sit so long?"

"We thought they were dead," Harold answers, and all eyes turn to him. Logan nods his way, the two seeming to have an understanding. "We came into some... new information."

" _They_?" Harper asks.  _There's more than one?_

"Another friend of ours was taken," Harold starts slowly. "I don't believe any of you have met Root."

Harper's breath catches in her lungs. Fingernails digging into her jeans, she looks to Logan and Pierce. They all share the same, uneasy countenance.

"What," Shaw demands, eyes searing Harper's skin. She takes a deep breath, pulling her eyes away from her team.

"That was one of the numbers."

"From the Thornhill messages," Joey adds, a hush to his voice.

Shaw bristles.

"What do you mean that was one of the  _numbers_." It's not a question. It's a low rumbling demand that promises to kill. Harper swallows hard.

"A couple years ago, we got a number. It didn't make any sense. It was attached to a missing person from 1991. A Samantha Groves."

Shaw's jaw sets, eyes flaring with ice. Harper considers taking back her previous thoughts of wanting to see Shaw beneath the mask. She's not so sure the mask is there to protect Shaw, so much as everyone else.

"What happened with the number."

"Nothing," Harper says.  _Wrong answer._  "It, uh," she fumbles, losing some of her composure, "it was a dead end."

"I couldn't even get any hits on Friendczar," Logan says. Harper nods.

"She was... nonexistent. And then... the phone call. It was a woman's voice." Harper looks past Shaw, fading back into the memory. "She said we were too late for Root."

"It wasn't until the call that we were able to connect the dots," Joey says. "That they were the same person. She was too well hidden."

Blinking the memory away, Harper sees the way Fusco's eyes turn to saucers like a deer in headlights. Harold isn't in a much better state, and both have eyes on Shaw.

Shaw's hands are curled into fists tightly at her sides, every muscle coiled to the breaking point. Her jaw is locked, murder written in her eyes.

"You were supposed to save her, but it was too  _hard_?" Shaw asks between clenched teeth. "Intervening with the numbers is your  _job_."

"On the bright side, we know now she's not dead."

The murder grows in Shaw's eyes, and the suffocating pressure in Harper's chest says that Shaw is thinking of an index of ways to make those murders real. Shaw takes a step forward, and Fusco quickly grabs her arm, pulling her back. She tears her arm away, glare transferring to him, and he turns a sickly shade of green.

She breathes. The mask returns.

"Has She talked to you since?" Shaw asks Harper, and the boys give their friend a peculiar look. "The Machine?" Shaw clarifies.

Harper clears her throat, nodding her head Joey and Logan's way, hand motion telling her to cut it out.

"Wait, what Machine?" Joey asks, brow furrowed. Harold looks at his wit's end. An epiphany erupts in Logan's eyes.

"Oh my God, Thornhill isn't a person," he says, fingers pulling through his hair. "I knew one man couldn't have socials on retainer."

"You didn't tell them?" Shaw asks.

"The less they knew about where the numbers come from, the safer She is."

"I thought we told each other everything," Joey responds, hurt in his words.

"Don't worry, pal," Fusco tells him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I was the last to know, too."

Joey gives him an odd look, then shrugs him off. His eyes settle back on Harper, demanding an answer.

"Guys, I'm sorry," she says, putting her hands up. "But we have a bigger issue to deal with right now." Turning to Harold, she asks, "Do you have a plan?"

His eyes dart to Shaw, then back. He nods.

"Everything you need to know is in the kitchen."

"Great," Harper responds, pushing off the couch. "Then let's get started." Walking forward, she's forced to pass Shaw on her left and her team on her right. All have eyes on her, and she works hard at ignoring every one of their glares.  _Here's to hoping I can live this one down,_  she says to herself. Shaw rolls her eyes, the mood seeming to pass. However, by the way Shaw's muscles hold tight, Harper isn't so sure it's entirely forgive and forget.

 _All the more reason to get this done and get out of here_ , she decides with a sigh. Fusco comes to her side, voice low as he walks with her to the kitchen.

"You're lucky your number's not up after that blood bath out there," he tells her seriously, and she can't help but laugh.

"I can take care of myself, thanks." She pauses a moment, tongue clucking against her teeth in thought. "Can I ask you something?"

"If you're worried that I'm mad at you too, don't worry. You haven't pissed me off yet."

"Oh, Lionel, it's sweet you think I care about that," she coos, and his eyes narrow. "Who is this Root to you guys? To Shaw? For someone who doesn't seem like the emotional type, she looked ready to blow her top."

Fusco clears his throat, taking a minute to find the right phrasing.

"Root is uh, special. To all of us... Shaw too."

The answer only leaves her with more questions, but as the rest of their rag-tag rescue squad piles into the row-house kitchen, she's forced to keep them to herself.

## ___\ Soft Boot /___

**{Badge Scan: Claire Mahoney...**

**> Level 4 Clearance...**

**> > Access Granted...**

**> >> Heat scan inconclusive**

**...Switching to video playback...**

**...Closed Circuit Systems Online...**

**> Delta Facility**

**> > Eastwood, Syracuse NY**

**> >> October 16, 2018, 18:28 EST**

**... Evaluating System Threat: Root}**

Root lies strapped to the hospital bed, eyes loosely focused on the whiteboard on the far wall. A single number is written in the center with a thick, black marker:

**15,813**

Fifteen thousand, eight hundred and thirteen simulations. She blinks slowly, the numbers blurring away. The doctors bustle around her, checking her monitors and changing her IVs. Her heart rate is low, barely thudding by, unlike when the simulations first began. When her heart raced with each new start, every time feeling like the real thing.  _Everything feels simulated_. Every image fed through her eyes nothing more than pixels convincingly coming together to build a world around her. A world that's somehow simultaneously better and worse than being in the Samaritan facility. But at this point, she can barely distinguish which is which, or if she's ever in reality at all anymore.

_Not that it matters. Nothing really matters anymore._

She thinks of dreaming. Not the actual act-- the idea of actually finding a better place in her mind was crushed long ago. No, not dreaming, of dying in dreams. Somehow scientists decided that if you died in a dream, you died in real life. Right there in your sleep, just gone. For all the times Root has died in the simulations, she always comes back. At first, it seemed like a blessing. Each death was a chance to start over and win the fight. Now, the idea of living after each fatal gunshot seems more like a curse. It's been months since she wondered how long until she escaped. She now wonders how long until something a little more morbid comes for her.

Gunfire erupts on the floor below, but Root doesn't even lift her head. Lambert pokes his head into the hall as a Samaritan operative rushes to the door.

"We have a security breach. People on floor two."

"How is that possible?" Lambert demands, but doesn't wait for the operative to answer. "Lock this place down. Isolate their location and detain of them." The operative remains in the doorway. "Now!" Lambert barks, and he scampers away. Running a hand through his hair, Lambert looks at the machinery surrounding Root. He sneers.

"Get that stuff off of her," he commands. "Bring her up to the fifth floor. No one in or out after she makes it there. Understood?"

The doctors mutter their answers, quickly pulling away the sensors and yanking off her restraints. Lambert approaches her bedside, anger brewing in his eyes like black storm clouds. He folds his hands behind his back, leaning over her as the doctors pull away her headpiece.

"You know, when you and John made your little escape attempt six months ago, I was worried your friends would find us. I even considered uprooting this whole thing. Moving shop. But when no one came, I decided against it." His eyes flicker over her, scanning her body with a smirk. His oily eyes come back to hers. "I guess this one's on me."

Root feels the restraints on her wrists unbuckle. Snapping them forward, the straps fly free, and she grabs Lambert by either side of his face, sitting up and pulling his face dangerously close. The confidence in his eyes is replaced by a flash of terror, his hands immediately incasing her wrists. Her top lip tugs into a menacing leer. She keeps her eyes dead-set on his.

"You know," she starts, voice barely more than a whisper. Even Death holds his breath at the sound. "They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. You know what I see in your eyes?" He swallows hard, and she tilts her head ever so slightly.  She pulls him closer, snatching the breath from his lungs. "I see  _fear_." He tries to pull away, but she holds him tight, her strength unparalleled. "Tell me," she continues, jagged nails digging into his skin, "what do you see in mine?"

He searches her eyes, breath coming in quick, short bursts, but he turns up empty handed. A smile quirks on her lips, but there's no pleasure in it.

"You don't see anything, do you?" she asks. He's unsure if it's rhetorical. She raises a brow, the hollowness of her eyes not leaving. "We're all responsible for the monsters we make." Her hands slide to his jawline. "Even you."

Her hands encase his throat, despite his attempts to pry her hands away. He chokes, gasping for air, but her fingers grip tighter, cutting the air from his lungs. He scratches at her furiously, but it's no use. Reaching to his waist, he fumbles about clumsily for his firearm. Without bothering to aim, he fires.

Pain sears into her side as the bullet grazes her, and she lets go, eyes dropping to the wound as blood begins to stain her white hospital gown. The pain is biting, but at least she can feel something.

Lambert, still gasping, backs away and dashes into the hall. Around her, the doctors are all paralyzed from fear. She looks them each in the eye.

"We can either do this the usual way, or you can all take the day off." She looks one of the women over, sizing her up. "Except  _you_."

They're gone, everything in their hands clattering to the floor as they run down the hall, opting for the firefight over a date with Root. She begins working her ankle restraints, the last doctor left quaking.

"What's your pant size?" Root asks, but the woman is too petrified to respond. Rolling her ankles to get the circulation working back in them, she slips off the bed. "You know what? On second thought, I don't think it matters." Grabbing one of the IV poles, she swipes it along the floor, knocking the doctor's feet out from under her. Kneeling down, Root grabs her by the coat collar, then slams her down. Her head connects to the concrete floor with a sickening crack, and the doctor goes limp.

"What are you-- what are you doing?" Claire blubbers from the corner.  _You'd think in at least one of these simulations, she'd have the better mind to run._

"I'm a little tired of hospital gowns," Root answers simply, tugging the woman's black jeans on and throwing on the dark purple top. "They're  _so_  last simulation." Rolling her neck, she starts toward Claire, eyes instinctively looking to the spot on the ground where Lambert's gun always skitters to. When it's not there, a dark chuckle escapes her.

"What's so funny?"

"I usually have a gun for this part," Root says, eyes returning to Claire. Winding up, she punches Claire square in the face, and she drops like a stone. Shaking out her hand, Root starts into the hall.

"John?" she bellows, not even bothering to be subtle. An operative darts out of the adjacent room, gun raised, and she snaps his wrist back easily. Taking the gun, she shoots him without looking, eyes preoccupied as she scans the hall.  _Usually he's here by now--_

"Root, come on," John says breathily, grabbing Root's wrist and tugging her down the hall. "We have to go."

"There's two coming up the left hall," Root says dully, tossing John the gun. He looks at her with confusion. Sure enough, two agents burst around the corner of the left hall, and John takes them both down.

"When we turn the corner, shoot at two o'clock." He does, hitting an operative before even registering he was there.

"I thought they took your implant out?" he asks, gun raised. She continues down the hall, not bothering to pick up any of the downed agents' guns.

"They did."

"Then how are you talking to Her?"

"I'm not."

He does a double take, but she doesn't bother to elaborate. Instead, she yanks the keycard off of the agent as she passes by, swiping it to the next door up. She opens it for him, and he ducks inside.

"What's in here?" he asks, looking about. It's a closet, housing miscellaneous mops, vending machine snacks, and bullet boxes.

"Until this is over?" she replies, still in the doorway. "You."

Shutting the door, it locks behind her. She stuffs the keycard in her back pocket.

"Root!" John bellows, voice muffled through the door. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Trying to avoid watching you die again," she answers. There's not an ounce of feeling behind her words, just a tiredness that presses down on her with the weight of the world. He begins banging on the door with all of his force. Kicking, punching, shoulder checking.

"The less noise you make, the less people will know you're in there," she tells him, then starts down the hall.  _Toward those doors that lead to the end of the line._ She'd tried on more than one occasion to pick another path, but she always wound up ending in the same place.  _At some point, it's better to stop beating around the bush and just bite the bullet._

"Root? Root!" John cries, banging still, but she ignores him.

The double doors burst open, two agents entering the hall with guns raised. She gives them a smile.

"Hi, boys," she greets, putting her hands up in surrender. They approach her slowly. The first, coming within arm's reach, outstretches his hand to her upper arm. She dodges it easily, shoving the heel of her hand into his nose as she grabs his wrist, pushing his arm to the left. He pulls the trigger, but she's already realigned his aim, and it hits his colleague in the chest. He drops, and as another operative comes from behind, she turns the agent around in her arms, letting him take four bullets to the back before bending his arm over his shoulder, shooting the oncoming agent in the head. He falls to his knees, then face to the floor, blood spreading and seeping under John's closet door.

The agent in her arms coughs, blood on his lips as he struggles to draw in a ragged breath. She looks him over, watching his white dress shirt turn red. She tuts.

"Maybe you'll have better luck next time around," she offers, snapping his arm at the elbow and letting him drop to the floor. He tries to breathe, but his struggles to grasp the last straws of life are in vain.

She starts down the darkened hall, eyes searching for any sign of Shaw. Usually, by this point, she sees agents carting her toward the lab. This time, it's eerily quiet. She reaches the end and rounds the corner. Still, no Shaw.  _If they decided to change gears, it sure took them long enough._

Rolling her neck and stretching out her shoulders, Root pushes through the lab door. Lambert stands at the far left by the computer system, gasping for breath. Upon seeing Root, he raises his firearm.

"Don't come any closer," he tells her.

"As if I need an excuse to stay away from you," she grumbles, pulling out the chair of a nearby desk. Kicking up her feet, she presses her hand to her side, feeling the blood seeping through her new shirt. Lambert looks at her with surprise, lowering his firearm.

Gunfire sprays from the adjacent room, screams and war cries rallying just beyond the wall. She doesn't budge.

"Get off me!" Shaw's muffled voice comes through the other room, amidst the agonized groans of the agents. The door is thrown open, Shaw forced through bucking like a bull at the rodeo. The sight of Shaw so lively almost brings a spark of animation back to Root's soul.  _Almost._

Instead, her eyes slide to Lambert, and she cocks a brow. "Really?" she asks him flatly. At the sound of Root's voice, Shaw stops her struggle. "I love a good drama, but this is a little much.  _Even_  for me."

"Root?" Shaw says, eyes wide. The guards pull her back to the chair, tying her arms behind her back. She ignores them entirely, all of her attention focused on Root. Root, in the face of peril and imminent death, sitting at a desk with her feet kicked up and a sassy retort for the man behind it all. Shaw's mouth drops open the slightest bit, a surprised smile hanging on her lips.

"Hey, Sweetie," Root responds, looking Shaw over. Dark shirt, dark jeans smeared in blood, blood on her hands and a dirt smudge on her cheek. Hair disheveled. Eyes alight.

"You sure haven't forgotten how to handle yourself," she says, smile still floating there, as if unbelieving of the sight before her. Root can feel the butterflies as they stir in her chest, coming out of their extended hibernation, but she forces them down. She can't handle another let down. She can't handle another ounce of hope.

Kicking back from her perch, Root stands, rubbing the blood that slicks her hand onto her jeans. She extends her hand toward Lambert. He stares at her blankly.

"What do you want?" he asks. She gives him a look.

"I didn't bring a gun with me," she says, as if it's obvious.

"So, naturally, I'm just supposed to give you mine?"

"Isn't that how this works?" she retorts, and he blinks a few times, trying to register what she means. A look of dawning crosses his face. Pulling out the clip, he removes every bullet save for one, then tosses both pieces to her. She catches them expertly, reassembling the firearm and cocking it. She looks bored.

"What are you doing?" Shaw asks, looking Root over. Looking at the gun. The way Root holds it. "What do you mean, ‘this is how it works’?"

"It's always like this," Root says with a sigh, looking about herself. "This room, these chairs, that computer," she gestures to everything with the gun, not seeming to care as she points it directly at herself. "The clothes are new, though."

"Don't point that thing at yourself," Shaw snaps. "The safety's off."

"Thanks for the concern, Sam," Root says, tilting her head forward with a smile. She leaves the safety exactly where it is. She lets her hand fall to her side, gun pointed at the floor. Her smile fades. "While I'd love to catch up, I have a few questions for you first."

"Is this an interrogation or something?" Shaw asks. There's no irritation in her words-- curiosity more than anything else. Patience. Letting Root do what she needs to.

"Or something," Root responds. Clears her throat. "The first time we met, what did I greet you with?"

"Besides the taser?" Shaw chuckles. "An iron."

"Do you remember what my alias was?"

Shaw stares at her a moment, revealing nothing. Then, the ghost of  a smile.

"Veronica Sinclair."

Root's face remains deadly calm. The smile that used to come with these small moments are long forgotten.  _Samaritan knows all of these._ They're more formalities than comforts anymore-- a slip up on these is just lazy programing at this point.

"Where'd you shoot me when our little bunch first found me with Harold?"

"Shoulder."

"Who vouched for me when I was stuck in the Library?"

"Me." Shaw looks Root over, dark humor swirling in her eyes. "Considering where we are now, maybe that was a bad idea."

A single butterfly escapes her net, fluttering into her stomach. She kills it with a single look at the gun.

"What was our first pit stop after we stole the jet?"

"Miami."

Root waits for Shaw to grow annoyed. She waits to hear Shaw demand for the game of twenty questions to be over. Instead, she sits silently, waiting for the next one. Clearing her throat, Root raises the gun, looking at it curiously. She sees her reflection in the smooth metal. The way her eyes give nothing, the way her skin seems devoid of color, the way her lips no longer hold back all the things she wanted to tell Shaw one day.  _There is no one day. Shaw's never actually coming._ She sighs.  _Keep it together. Just keep it together._

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

"Do you remember what we talked about... in the stock exchange?" She watches Shaw's features, looking for any sign of recognition on Shaw's face. She can almost swear she sees a flash of something cross her eyes. "Before they took you?"

"Of course I remember."

 _Here it comes_ , Root thinks to herself. Her heart doesn't even sink.  _The big let down._

"When we were looking for you, I was able to send you a message.  _That_ message. It seemed like the only thing Samaritan couldn't touch." She brushes her hair behind her ear, feeling the tangled knots as her fingers catch on them. Somehow, after everything, the words stick in her throat the slightest bit.

"I've been in and out of so many simulations like this one, I don't know what to believe anymore. But I believe  _that_. And if you understand what I'm referring to-- which no one sitting in that chair has-- then I know this is it. This is  _real_."

Shaw's eyes are steady on Root's, and she leans forward in her chair.

"I remember. I remember it." She grips the armrests tight.

 _She doesn't_ , Root corrects, pressing her lips together. Even in the weightless oblivion of simulated pixels, the gun seems too heavy to raise another time. But she has to raise it another time. Hand shaking, she draws it toward her, taking a deep breath.

"I said you were hot. Good with a gun."

Root stops.

"But you and me would be like a four alarm fire in an--"

"--oil refinery," Root finishes, the syllables tasting like salvation as they leave her lips. Her lips remain parted, not sure whether to breathe or scream. She does neither. Another butterfly escapes the net, but this time, Root lets it flutter.

Shaw raises her eyebrows, devious smirk climbing on her features. "Thinking back to it, it did sound cozy, didn't it?"

The net breaks. Butterflies well in her chest, spreading through every bone and muscle as her lips mouth all the words she wants to say at once, not sure where to start or if she can at all. Heat wells in her eyes, blurring her vision, and she rushes to blink it away, not wanting to miss so much as a second of Shaw.  _The real Shaw. Right here, right now._

Root's left hand comes to her mouth, right setting the gun down on the table as she takes a shaky step forward. Then two. Then runs. She's across the room in half a heartbeat, hands at Shaw's face as she drops to her knees, eye to eye with Shaw. Her fingers linger over Shaw's cheeks with the delicacy of feathers, as if pressing too hard could shatter her completely. Her eyes scan every detail of Shaw's face, collecting every possible detail that could have changed since the last time she saw her. The last time she  _actually_  saw her.

"I'll give you two a minute," Lambert says, slinking out of the room. The door closes. They're alone.

"The simulations, huh?" Shaw asks.

Root nods. "Thousands."

"Those things can bite me."

In spite of herself, in spite of everything that has happened and the bedlam surrounding them on all sides, Root smiles. She laughs.

Shaw's lips pull in a lopsided smile, and she drops her head just enough to rest it against Root's forehead, leaning her face into Root's hands. She closes her eyes, holding onto the moment. Root keeps hers open, fingers tracing along Shaw's cheekbones and traveling along her jawline. Re-memorizing every detail.

"You have to untie me," Shaw says, eyes flicking back open. From this close, Root swears she sees every star in the galaxy reflecting back in them. "Before he comes back."

Lingering a moment more, Root pulls away, standing as she rounds the chair, then unties Shaw's hands. Rolling her wrists, Shaw stands. Seeing the blood on Root's jeans and following it up to the dark stain on her side, Shaw tugs at Root's shirt, finding the crimson blood oozing from the bullet wound.

"Just grazed," Root murmurs, Shaw's proximity and touch intoxicating. Shaw's eyes shift up to hers.

"You need to put pressure on that," she says, dropping Root's shirt back down. "Grab the gun, we'll get Lambert on the way out. All my gear is still in the other room."

There's a tap on the door, and Root freezes. Even though this isn't a simulation, the set up is still the same.  _Only two options_. Root closes her eyes, each butterfly in her system wilting like flowers in the snow. Her shoulders drop, and she presses her lips together tight.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" Shaw asks. Immediately, her hand is back at Root's side, pressing her wound. "You're losing some blood, and you look like you haven't had a decent meal in two years. You're blood sugar's gotta be taking a nose dive."

"It's not that," Root replies, pain in her voice. It's not from her side.

"Then what?"

Root opens her eyes, a sadness in them that rattles Shaw to her very core.

"I wish you hadn't come."

**Author's Note:**

> bum, bum, bummmmm! Sorry for the angst, I guess I’m just in that sort of mood. I think I have one more piece left, and then Soft Boot will officially be complete. This one was going to continue, but I realized it was getting pretty lengthy, so I decided to cut it back. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy it!!


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